The Artist
by microtodd
Summary: A Toreador's Story of the evening


**The Artist: A Toreador's Evening**

by T.S. Davenport

The central room at the art gallery was alive with the grace and elegance of the party. I slowly swept my eyes across the room, taking in the sights. The swirls of the colored fabrics of various cocktail dresses and evening gowns flashed before my eyes, backed by the dark and somber tones of the paintings on the walls. The stolid black-and-white tuxedos were scattered about the room, uniform in appearance yet crisp and solid enough to still be pleasing to the eye. A multitude of people ambled amongst the fabulous artwork, talking, laughing, and drinking. White-jacketed waiters circulated through the crowd, holding silver trays of hors d'oeuvres and champagne. The light notes of Vivaldi's _Spring _sounded softly in the background, behind the clinks of glasses, laughter of human voices, and the underlying murmur of quiet conversation.

I glanced back over my shoulder, out the window, and saw the bright lights of the city, white streetlights and red neon signs, fading slowly into the solid blackness of the night sky. The full dark of night had embraced the city, and there was plenty of time before the sun would peek its rays down upon the streets again. I turned back to the crowd, taking a sip of the bubbly effervescent golden liquid from the stemmed glass in my left hand.

The party tonight was for the unveiling of several new paintings in the gallery, including my new work. The painting, a large watercolor canvas depicting the Casting Out of Paradise, was surrounded by several admirers. I took immense inner pride in the painting, which had been given a prestigious central spot in the gallery.

I slowly scanned the crowd, searching for potential candidates. Several beautiful young women caught my eye at various points in the room, as did some other familiar faces.

Near the hors d'oeuvres table stood a tall, slim man in the requisite black tuxedo. His blond hair was slicked back on his head, making his aristocratic nose and sharp chin stand out even more on his stern face. I recognized him, a local highborn political figure. He stood silently, alone. I briefly wondered why he was present. Probably to keep an eye on things. Many of those present were under his power in the city. It was in his best interest to stay close to those people, to observe them.

Standing by my painting was another familiar face in animated conversation. The small, raven-haired beauty was an artist like me, one of the respected artisans of the city. She stood in a relaxed pose, one leg turned slightly inward and the heel lifted, showing an expanse of lightly-complexioned flesh up along her thigh. Her hair, cut fashionably short, stayed perfectly in place about her head. The silky white dress she wore clung to her body, and I could imagine the carnal thoughts passing through the mind of her companion, a tanned and muscled dark-haired man. She threw her head back and laughed, touching the man lightly on his broad shoulder, and I smiled in spite of myself. She had found her catch for the evening.

Another young woman stood further along, her dress of black leather creaking slightly as she slowly took a sip from the highball glass clutched demurely in her hand. Her long blond tresses were pulled back behind her head, the curls twisting round and round as they cascaded down her back. She, too, had the light pale complexion of one who rarely, if ever, ventured outdoors on a sunny day. Another artist, although this one was not here for the fun. She was scoping out the competition. I imagined she was furious that my painting was given the central spot in the main room, as her works were usually placed discreetly in the corners.

She was surrounded by several young men, drawn to her as men usually are. The classic beauty of her slim features and blond hair presented a wonderful contrast to the revealing bust and hemline of her slightly gothic leather outfit. I had seen her many times before, and she had never spent more than a few moments unescorted.

I smiled as I took another sip from my glass.

"Hello there," The soft voice sounded from my left, and I turned to face the woman who had stepped forward to me.

I replied with a casual greeting, as I gave her a very admiring sweep of her figure, letting my smile just perceptibly widen. The green cocktail dress she wore was offset perfectly by her hair, which was deep red, so dark it almost looked black. I took in a deep breath, allowing the scent of her sweet perfume to imbue my senses as I looked into her green eyes. A red brooch stood out pinned to her dress at the bodice, and the rest of the gown seemed to sweep back from that central focal point, giving the impression of moving into the wind, while her skin seemed to radiate off its own luminescence. I found myself excited by the expanse of light-colored flesh at her bodice, the swells of her breasts rising and falling as she took in breath.

The Vivaldi ended with a subtle decrescendo, and the first notes of Ravel's _Bolero_ began to sound throughout the air. I took a fraction of a second to prepare myself, for the creation of another beautiful work of art.

She looked right into my eyes as I began to talk. I spoke to her senses, to her emotions, as I orated the desires I felt for her. Her skin began to flush, and her cheeks and neck turned slightly red as her heartbeat increased and blood rushed throughout her body, and the notes of the music began to grow in intensity. I poured even more powers into my conversation, using all my skills of seduction and charisma, of which I'd had a very long time to perfect. Her knuckles were white on the stemmed glass she held. The dress began to ripple and wave at her legs, as she shifted her feet and body in excitement.

Finally, as the music was at its rousing peak, I stepped forward and slid my hands around her back, pulling her body against mine. I felt the sudden heat of her through my silk shirt, and heard her gasp slightly as she felt the cool chill of my flesh. I leaned forward, our eyes still locked. The tip of her tongue just barely showed as she moistened her lips, and then our mouths met. There was a tinkle as the glass she dropped shattered against the floor.

Her body writhed and wriggled against mine, her stomach rubbing against me, and her hands caressed the back of my neck, running her fingers through my hair.

I slid my mouth away from hers, brushing my lips along her check and neck. Little gasps of pleasure sounded in my ear. I kissed her neck gently, flicking my tongue along her skin, tasting her skin with the slight alcohol tinge of perfume. Running my tongue along my teeth, I felt the incisors increase in size, then plunged them into her.

She gasped loudly, and her fingernails dug into my neck painfully. I sealed my mouth around the bite, and drank in her essence.

The blood hit my mouth and throat with its familiar warm assault. It was like nothing any human has ever experienced. It was the sweet taste of rich honey, revitalizing energy of fresh-ground Columbian coffee, and surging warmth of fine single-malt Scotch whiskey all at once.

She fought against me, trying to push me away, but at the same time moaned with pleasure. The taste of the blood changed slightly as adrenaline poured into her bloodstream. Her pulse quickened, and the liquid began to flow out at a faster pace.

I continued to drink, as her struggles became weaker and weaker. Eventually, with one final gasp, she became completely limp. I did not take enough to kill her; she would recover, although she would be weak for a few days. I could not bring myself to destroy the beautiful human creatures. I removed my fangs with a soft pop, and lowered her to the floor, timing it so that she lay in a provocative pose just as the last notes of Ravel faded away. Another beautiful piece of performance art created!

All around me, activity had stopped. The crowd of partygoers stood and stared in silence, some with mouths agape. Some people just don't appreciate good art. I saw the blond nobleman Ventrue shake his head, then point at the doors. Immediately another muscular figure, out of place amongst the black-tie partygoers in his simple leather jacket, appeared from an unseen location and closed the double doors to the room and locked them, standing in front of them with arms crossed. Brujah could always be counted on to be reliable. Looking around, I saw smiles appear on many of the faces in the crowd. And on those smiles, two of the front teeth were much longer than the others.

- tsd - 21 Aug 2001


End file.
